Lovinito
by Mister Melancholy
Summary: Lovinito, sun of my life, bane of my existence. My love, my sin, my everything. Loh-vee-nee-toe: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of four steps down the palate to tap, at four, on the teeth. Loh. Vee. Nee. Toe.
1. PART ONE: 1

**Lovinito  
the Confession of a Crazed Latino Male**

*** PART ONE ***

**1**

Lovinito, sun of my life, bane of my existence. My love, my sin, my everything. Loh-vee-nee-toe: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of four steps down the palate to tap, at four, on the teeth. Loh. Vee. Nee. Toe.

He was Lo, plain Lo, in the very midst of a Spanish morning, standing at four feet eleven in but a simple mundane dress shirt. He was Lovi in general, day-to-day attire. He was Romano during school hours, or when he was in grave trouble, or when he was introducing himself. He was Lovino on the dotted line. But caressed gently in the embrace of my strong, tanned arms, he was always _Lovinito_.

Did he have a precursor? He did, indeed he did. In point of fact, there might have possibly been no precious Lovinito at all had I not hugged the fragile heartstrings, one blazing summer in the middle of June, of a certain initial woman-child. In the very madenning depths of the insane Madrid streets. Oh, when? About as many years before my precious Lovinito was born as my age was that one particular summer. You can always count on a clandestinely murderous man for a fancy prose style—a heartfelt spiel of foreign sentiments unbeknownst and oftentimes looked down upon by the majority of this world's sensitive population.

Mis queridas damas y caballeros, what I hold before my very existence is a sin far greater than ones committed by those unlawful bastardos. Mirar y ver… mirar y ver at my innocently malicious doings. What I have committed from the very core of mi corazón.

Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. _No nos dejes caer en tentación. _I have been reciting that one sacred phrase for as long as I have been alive, but even then, I am too late. I cannot be saved.

Gaze upon the malevolence of lust and its flaccid affliction of pain and woe through the thorns of an erstwhile flor Española. A gentle Spanish flower, wilted and bloodied by its own peccancy.

Oh, mi inocencia perdida… Oh, mi inocente Lovinito…

¡Lo siento! Lo siento, mi amor, mi pecado, mi todo…


	2. PART ONE: 2

**2**

Born in the heart of Madrid, in all its beautiful myriad of jubilee and flamboyancy, was a lone Spanish boy of pure descent, born on the precise time of exactly midnight—twelve right on the clock—during a rather warm day on the second of March. That was the year of 1845, a year more commonly referred to as the year of unexpected vitality and ardent passion. The people who brought upon the life of me were of the gentlest yet cruelest of natures.

My father held a seemingly refined and composed demeanor, yet was as easygoing as a single feather of a corrupted bird. He was an ensalada tropical of specially chosen genes: predominantly Spanish, with a mix of simple Italian heritage, and maybe a dash or two of German blood. His upbringing was pitifully penury, though that seemed to change upon a chance meeting with one beautiful girl of mixed Spanish and English heritage during an apparently cold winter day in the heart of a Belgian city (my memory had lost all contact of the specifics of its name, but I believe it to either start with an "l" or possibly an "r"). They have spoiled me rotten, especially considering I was their only child—their only "love" of their lives save for each other. But, their punishments were of the most animalistic nature, for if perchance I was to ever frown or display any sort of contempt or rancor, they starved me until I begged pathetically for mercy, to which they oftentimes responded with maniacal laughter. They whipped my fragile posterior senseless with a varying array of stinging weapons until I bled, then they whipped my fresh wounds till the very break of dawn. All it was could be described as pure, brutal, unadulterated carnage.

Yet, even with their rather sadistic doings, they loved me, and they made sure I was very aware of that, for their gentle embraces were as sweet as the softest icings on my photogenic mother's cakes, and their kisses were filled with teeth-rotting saccharine and care. I reciprocated their love in my own way, with perpetual smiles and never-ending laughter. To frown was an evil that should never be committed, and anger and sadness and all those negative emotions were of equal evilness. I have neither frowned nor cried nor threw temper tantrums thanks to the help of my very loving parents. ¡Gracias! ¡Gracias, mi familia!

Alas, at the ripe age of a newly prepubescent child, well around possibly eleven or twelve, did my parents leave me for the mirth-filled oblivion above, after a freak accident concerning a raging bull during a flamenco dance-a-thon. They were both killed, stained in their scarlet lily-white blood, after greeting the horns of one rabid Spanish bull, corrupted by insanities and whatnot. I witnessed their cries of sheer terror, their expressions of painful entreaties, their yells of drunken expletives, but when they looked at me, all they did was smile as gently as they first set their placid, crazed eyes of dark brown upon my uniquely emerald ones. I smiled back.

And then they fell onto their knees, their mouths spilling blood, draining their lanky bodies clean of the red liquid, and their expressions were emotionless, yet their bloodied red lips remained curled upwards into a soothingly deadly grin of hopeless hope. That was the last I saw of them until they were carried away, leaving me all alone, long forgotten, to fend for myself.

Whilst I loitered around the busy streets of Madrid all by my lonesome self, smiling, remembering the words my parents have left behind, in the very depths of my childish musings, I happened upon two young boys in very peculiar yet similar predicaments as I was. They had changed my life and view on various aspects of life forever.

The one I had noticed first went by the name of Gilbert Beilschmidt, though he apparently preferred the nickname "Gilbo," which he claimed was a play on words with his name and the term "albino," though I would have much rather thought a more logical name to support that would be "Gilbino". But, whatever the case, I found him to be a very strange specimen of the human species, for his hair was an unnatural shade of light—almost translucent—silver and his eyes a color of dark, dark red, signifying the corruption of innocence and his skin was deathly pallid and lackluster. His perfectionist parents had abandoned him, for they thought of him as the Diablo, from his choleric expression at birth and his rather malicious-looking demeanor. He was, I found, very nice, per se, though I found him to be a little bit arrogant at times as he always referred to himself as "the awesome me" and brought upon every egotistical statement he could say during conversation.

The other was Francis Bonnefoy, or simply Francis (he, apparently, did not go by any sort of nickname, but he generally called himself "big brother"). He was, indeed, the eldest of the three of us, giving him a much better array of knowledge than the rest of us. He knew everything there had to be known about intimacy and sex, though as I had come to know him better, it was basically because he had been constantly raped by salacious men and women alike, bringing upon that perpetual knowledge in the area of sex. His mind had been corrupted with a never-ending sexual libido, and he would pounce upon anything he deemed worthy of his _love_. On the day we three chanced our meeting, I had apparently become the item of affection for Francis, which meant I had also become Gilbo's toy of the day, too.

The two boys had been nice to me at first, calling me soothing names such as "cutie" and "adorable little kid". I made no correction as to say I was more than likely just a few weeks younger than them or so (well, at least concerning Gilbo, anyway; you can never be too sure when it comes to a Frenchman) and remained taciturn on the spot, feeling the chills rise up my spine as the two boys approached me in a salacious manner, tracing their slender fingers around the entirety of my body with an astounding gentleness. Then, in a matter of unforeseen seconds, those seemingly gentle demeanors dissipated into that of a lustful animal's—frightening and rabidly hungry. They both flaccidly dropped me into the nearest alleyway—dark, clandestine, forbidding—and proceeded to tactfully stripping me of my pathetic rags all the while stripping themselves of their own worn-and-torn attire.

I took account of every minor and insignificant detail splayed before me. We three were in the darkness in all our nude glory, and they stared at me with evident lust and want—those bright red eyes scrutinizing every aspect of my scarred body, and those evilly gentle blue eyes entertaining itself with whatever my body displayed. And I was smiling, because that was the only thing I could have done, and maybe I did blush tentatively for a few nanoseconds, for the attention they were giving me was very pleasurable. Yet, something inside of me ached, as if it were telling me of the immorality of all this; but, it was not as if I could stop any of this. They had easily pulled me into their trap, and they would not cease their goals just because of some pathetic entreaties that would just so-happen to escape my lips.

So there I remained, perpetual smile intact, feeling all the roughness of calloused and abused hands on my body, lingering against the palpitations of my heartbeat, feeling the eternal scars of years of abuse… They were grinning at me, and that moment had reminded me so much of my birth parents, whom had always smiled at me regardless of the circumstance. I made myself succumb to the two perpetrators, letting them do as they wish to my body, whilst smiling in the process and feeling an empty void in my heart being filled when I knew they reciprocated with their own smiles.

They had not gone any further than groping, however, on that one particular day. Rather, they congratulated me on my "courage" for enduring their foolish actions, and soon enough, we all became friends. We three began to hang out all day, all night, caring for one another, bonding with one another, sharing our lunatic-inspired musings with one another. After a few months, we have come to be known as the "Bad Touch Trio" amongst the citizens of Madrid. This was simply because we were infamous for our treacherous doings, for we produced pranks around the entirety of the city during the span of our boredom, which happened too often for our own good.

Many years have gone by, and it seemed that we three were inseparable. As if we were the very reincarnation of The Three Musketeers. Los Tres Mosqueteros—uno para todos y todos para uno. Or rather, we were the Trío de Mal Tacto—inspiring, deficient, together forever. We three grew up to be very wonderful men, full of the wisdoms of this insane and prejudicial world. Yet, we three were still children of the world, having naught knowledge of what the outside world had to offer to us on a fragile flower petal, and condoning to foolish errors and mistakes that could never be amended. But, if anything, it was the three of us that remained no matter what, and it was the three of us who taught one another the correct ways of life—the ways that would lead us to into the path of perpetual happiness and heavenly promises. Supposedly.

Seeing as they were the only two people I had left, I listened to both of them and learned their ways of sadistic mannerisms. And it is those sadistic mannerisms—those hay-wired, corrupted musings—that brought upon my very own heaven _and _hell, altogether, all at once, in a single moment swept up by a lone Spanish summer zephyr, all warm and dreary and simply wonderful.


	3. PART ONE: 3

**3**

1858—At fourteen years, my most promiscuous year, only between two partners, but it was practically three hundred and twenty-four days of sex, sexo, sexe. Frequently. Constantly. Varyingly, with short and quickie sessions here and maddeningly prolonged sessions every now and again.

The first day—my first time, as an already-corrupted virgin, with every ounce of knowledge in this very aspect—was with mi hermano Francis, whom of which had approached me with the subject, claiming that it would be merely for the matter of experimentation. The approach, however, was a simple surprise, as he had pounced on my back without warning and pulled down my trousers to my knees. Then, as if an extension to the surprise tackle, Francis had proceeded to hastily thrashing his prepubescent dick up into my butt, the tightness of it all sending both shivers of pleasure and disturbing pain throughout my entire body. The shock must have had a great effect on my body, for I had been paralyzed on the spot, not moving an inch save for Francis's fluctuating movements within me, and all I had felt was an overbearingly uncomfortable hurt in the side of my stomach as well as liquid dribbling down the sides of my legs. I quickly presumed it was blood.

Fear overtook me, because the blood reminded me of my parents' and Annabel's death, which made me immediately correlate my bleeding to the inevitable departure of Francis, or even myself. When my parents bled, they left me. When mi Annabel bled, she left me—officially, per se. And as I bled, I began to have thoughts of my own leaving, or Francis's own leaving, to which made me fidget uncomfortably, begging and pleading for the Frenchman to never leave me. Except, I chanted it with a never-ending string of words: No de nuevo, no de nuevo, no de nuevo…

At that, Francis pulled out slowly and carefully, and he embraced my lanky waist with his own skinny arms, comforting me with surreal gentleness. His whispered soothing words in my ear, telling me that it is typical for virgins to bleed during their first sexual intercourse, telling me that he would never try to hurt me intentionally, telling me that we would try again and again until the day I can feel the bliss he has always wanted to feel—to have sex with one you love. And he would never stop trying, for apparently his and my sake, until comfortable pleasure was felt.

I gave myself to him the day after that, and that the day after that day, and so on and so forth. By the fifteenth day, we were both satisfied, having felt that amazingly loving pleasure he so frequently proclaimed, something I thought was just a myth until I actually felt it. The experience is indescribable, but if one had to ask, I would answer with something like, "an abysmal pleasure that is heightened upon reaching climax—something intoxicating and good and overall just magnificent… amazing… every positive adjective you could possibly use". And, when I said it was intoxicating, I absolutely meant it, for we both couldn't get enough of it.

Eventually, the days were filled with that obsessive pleasure. We performed these acts on each other frequently, every day, for at least once a day, sometimes more, much more. We, Francis and I, enjoyed it, savored it, happily; but as does everything, in time, the whole ordeal became tedious, becoming more of a habit than an exciting guilty pleasure. Nothing was exciting any more, and everything was boring; put in, push in, pull out, repeat process, orgasm, rinse and repeat. This went on for about three months. Ninety days. Ninety days of boredom. My body was so used to it now that I didn't get excited as often anymore. It felt as if I lost all of my libido, to which I responded with hasty and frantic freak-out sessions.

Francis must have had the same feelings I did, for he exhibited obvious boredom during the one hundred and twenty-third day. That was, of course, when our good old friend Gilbert returned to us. Gilbert had, just a few years back, found his younger brother, whom of which went by the name of _Ludwig_, if I recall correctly. The two lived in Germany for many years until that day—that particular day, the one hundred and twenty-third day—where the Prussian burst into our room, discovering the secret of our sex lifestyle, something we have been keeping away from him. I quickly assumed he would be angry, but rather than being just that, he was smiling at us and began to ask if he could possibly join.

Threesomes were something I did not like entirely, even if I do think it feels a lot more wonderful than normal one-to-one sex. With sex, I think, it is something that only two partners may share, for when you love you give your entire being to someone else, not distribute it amongst two other people. You can't possibly equally divide your _love_ with two people, regardless of the circumstances. But, if one were to ask me whether I loved Francis or Gilbert more, I would not be able to respond, for I would not know the answer. I know now who I loved better, because the two have been my best friends since forever. I may prefer one over the other at times, but that does not correlate to my love for them.

Nonetheless, I remained quiet at that moment, on the one hundred and twenty-third day. Francis, however, quickly agreed to the Prussian's question, and I became the contents in-between a sandwich unwillingly. Whilst I sucked Francis's dick, Gilbert pounded my stretched hole with his insanely huge and throbbing one, something I was so not used to. Gilbert's compared to Francis's was… exceptionally different. The Prussian's was longer, and it hurt so much more. But, at the same time, it felt so much better, so much more surreal, so much more pleasurable. I loved it, being the submissive one, being in the middle of the two. It meant that they both loved me, and that they both wanted to show their love to me, equally, simultaneously. It made me feel special, and thus this continued for a long time. Possibly, I think, five months. Five long months. Five long, dismal, exciting, hurtful, pleasurable months.

It was weird then. I learned so much more in that one year than I could have learn in a lifetime. I learned everything about sex, about masochism, about bondage, about sadism… about everything like that. I think, even, I learned about love, and that the best way to show and reciprocate it is to have nonstop sex, no matter what, even if it hurts. Because, even if it hurts, the ability to continue shows that you would go through anything for your lover.

But, of course, the three hundred and twenty-fourth day was our last. Well, my last for a long time, before I have loved again and met Annabel. A few days before that, Gilbert had returned to Germany to take care of his younger brother, for something happened between Ludwig and his clandestine lover—something agonizingly bad that pushed the limits of Gilbert's brotherly worry. The three hundred and twenty-fourth day was shared between me and Francis, much like the first day, but we had decided that I would be topping this time. Having no knowledge on this, I felt really lost, not knowing what to do or when to stop. I was so worried he would hate it. But he didn't. He didn't.

Rather, he loved it.

Francis loved me topping. He enjoyed every single moment of it, and as a matter of fact, I did too. It gave me a power that I could have never envisioned in my entire life. I felt like I was some omniscient being, having so much control, having so much power in only the palm of my hands. But that power was short-lived, for the only partner I had left suddenly disappeared. I would later learn that he ran off to England, to save his younger brother from the taboo rage of his best friend, whose name is apparently Arthur. And his younger brother… I know not of his name, but I would blame that on my lack of ability to remember details such as those.

Anyway. I felt lonely after that day. After that three hundred and twenty-fourth day. I didn't think I would ever feel that kind of power ever again. I never thought I could love ever again.

Fortunately, I was wrong.

Unfortunately, I had to meet _her_.


	4. PART ONE: 4

**4**

Annabel was a pretty little Belgian woman when I had met her, dancing across the busy streets of Madrid with her elegant femininity and grace. Her heritage was a sensual mix of Dutch, French, and German, her native tongue rolling around with a weird and passionate mixture of accents in those languages. Her features were something I remembered far less distinctly thanks to the product of my rendezvous with my precious Lovinito, but when my mind lingers on her, I remember quite a substantial amount of detail from when I last saw her, in all her unbroken, lively glory (more distinctly, her golden hair…). She had a rather large bosom that was pleasantly soft, rivaling the feathery snugness of a thousand pillows. Her hair was a soft, velvety blanket of short, curly golden locks, gathered carefully in her signature scarlet headband. Her eyes were a perpetual, abysmal sea of innocent green, luring me in with its amazing beauty. But it was not I who approached her, but rather quite the opposite, for the moment our eyes met, she bounced up to me childishly, splaying out a rather hasty greeting of foreign and confusing "hello's," careful to note my quietness at the moment of our meeting. Her smile was very pretty and lily-white; I melted upon the immediate she flashed me her beautiful sonrisa, and eventually, after a few seconds, we fell madly into each other's arms, grabbing at each other's hearts selfishly, as if it were meant to be.

And for quite some time, that's exactly how destiny seemed to portray our getting together: written in the books forever, like we were meant to be, for eternity, perpetually. I could have very well been convinced that we were both madly, insanely, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly, desperately in love with each other—not just love, but _in love_—hopeless in the fact that our personalities and views clashed, but perfect in the sense that it didn't matter to us. But I was completely and utterly blind when I found myself being "in love" with Annabel, for after a few months of careless intimacy and childish tomfoolery with her… after our adolescent puppy dog love days were over… I had grown a weird and unpleasant emotion for her—one that could be described as baleful rancor in an amalgam of confusing affection and a weird disturbance in my equanimity.

Annabel was… different. When something of a pleasant degree happened, she smiled. When something of negative proportions chanced upon her life, she frowned and flailed and whined; she did not smile and she remained depressed for a prolonged period of time. The negative sentiments seemed very foreign to me, for I had not seen it for such a long time, and my birth parents had always related it to something sinful. So, I had associated the pretty Belgian woman to the forced acts of the Diablo, and came to hate every single fiber of her being. But it was she who had taught me the truth behind these very proclaimed "sinful" feelings. It was Annabel who had taught me to hate, to release the years of bottled up anger inside of me in a way that I found comfortable. It was also the same Annabel who had taught me how to love genuinely. Not the masochistic and sadistic way my birth parents and my two best friends taught me, but the _pure_ way of loving someone—gently, slowly, sensually, with a careful buildup of romantic sentiments. And with that, I came to love her again, our love-hate relationship gently budding into a flawed flower of love, which inevitably made it absolutely perfect.

Destiny denied us, however. The same destiny that brought us together alas also tore us apart, for before the day I had planned on proposing to my wonderful and lovely Annabel—mi amor maravilloso—a deadly calamity had struck her. It was at the same spot we had met, in the busy streets of Madrid, full of people and boisterous talk and playful children. It had happened so quickly… so _suddenly_… just like the death of mi familia some years back. Whilst Annabel—mi Annabel, mi Annabel… Oh, whilst she was dancing amongst the streets again, in a long, beautiful, flowing teal gown—the perfect shade to match every single aspect of her lovely features—a crazed maniac of obvious Belarusian decent walked up to her, pulled out a gun, and shot Annabel's head with no hint of empathy nor pity nor emotion. The Belarusian woman was completely devoid of emotion, ruining a life without a care in the world, as if she was used to it. And, it seemed she _was_, for all she did was stare down at mi Annabel's crumbling body, kicked it, and walked off into the distance. No one helped her; only stared—stared at the horrifically demented look on the Belgian's serene face, darkened with red and surprise and lack of vitality.

When I rushed off to her, dropping the ring I was going to give her in just a few minutes before having witnessed her quick and painless death, I found that she was heavier than I had initially remembered, and her face bore a deathly melancholic expression—one that she had shown just a few months ago, after a rather ardent argument about some problem concerning the Spanish economy. The Belarusian woman returned and faced me, her gun still in her hand, and for a moment I had a strong feeling she would kill me, too. And, at that moment, I wouldn't have cared less; I actually yearned for her to shoot me, right next to my beautiful Annabel, so the two of us may continue our promise of a perpetual romance.

The beautiful Belarusian woman did no such thing, however. All she did was stare at me with those soulless lavender eyes, looking at me with trace hints of what seemed to be pity, and began flapping her pink lips quietly, whispering deadly truths to me that practically killed me: _"She was having an affair with my beloved brother. Moj brat. This cannot be forgiven… što suka…"_

Indeed, it could not have been forgiven, as the moment I heard those horrifying words of truth come out of the Belarusian's mouth, I looked down upon my former soul mate and slapped her eerily alabaster cheek, pained tears cascading down the sides of my own cheeks, which were full of choleric and ardent color. It was at that moment when people actually considered helping her, for when I was about to slap her again, someone had stopped me and pulled me away from her lifeless body, calling me a lunatic and shouting for the policía or the ambulance or someone that could have possibly helped Annabel, even though most were aware that it was already too late. _Ya es demasiado tarde…_

The last I saw of mi Annabel was negative, her face of fearful shock. The last I felt of Annabel was negative, my heart broken from her lies and my head heated into a bubbling pit of hatred. Yet, the feelings that Annabel taught me lingered for quite some time, until they dissipated into oblivion along with my supposed perpetual affection and thoughts of her. I soon forgot everything she had taught me, the ebb of emotions she engraved in my mind slowly fading away into naught. I soon forgot how to frown and instead opted for my signature smile—seemingly happy on the outside, yet was corrupted by years of physical… verbal… emotion scars.

But, she did permanently leave something behind for me to suffer through—a cynical outlook towards life. All because I gave her all my trust, yet it was Annabel who had broken it with a simple action that would forever be replayed in my mind. How she had cheated on me, even though she claimed I was absolutely perfect for her and how she never wanted to be with anyone else but _me_. But, like her, it was all lies. She was a fake. A disgusting fake that I wanted to rid from my entire being, my past, my everything.

But the very simple fact that I loved her… that she was my very first true love… it hurt me. I wanted so much to see her sonrisa—her smiling face—once again, before I found out the horrible truth that she hid behind my back slyly. Before all the complicated feelings emerged from the very depths of my heart. Before our relationship turned over to the road of inevitable destruction. Sometimes, I did wish I hadn't learned that truth, of Annabel cheating on me with the Belarusian's brother, but I felt as if it were destiny's way of saying we weren't meant for each other after all.

During Annabel's funeral, which I had forced myself to attend after some very long mental arguments for the span of a month beforehand, I had worn a variety of yellow attire, receiving a rather plentiful amount of disgusted looks from the people who came to mourn in black. _Yellow_… the only reason I had worn such a color was it represented the varying aspects of my relationship with Annabel. Yellow represents the joy, happiness, optimism, and hope I had felt for her when our relationship was just a childish little flower beginning to bloom. Yellow represents sunshine, which I had sometimes referred to her as, as I found that she definitely made my days a lot brighter, even under the already-bright Spanish sun. Yellow represents philosophy, from which stemmed from the very fact she taught me that those very "sinful" emotions my birth parents had taught me from the very immediate of my birth weren't exactly evil at all, but were rather necessary for an emotionally healthy person. Yellow represents inspiration, because for quite some time, I felt inspired by her uniqueness and her happiness and her depression and her… _everything_. Yellow, alas, also represented dishonesty… betrayal… deceit… a hazard… and it all, unfortunately, could be used to describe Annabel and all her vile, cheating self. And finally, it is yellow that represented the color of her beautiful soft, velvety blanket of short, curly golden locks—the very feature she had that I knew I would never have forgotten, even upon my chance meeting with my precious Lovinito, whom of which made me forget practically everything about Annabel… almost. _Casi casi casi…_

It was during Annabel's funeral where I smiled, too, creating an unwanted atmosphere about me in the eyes of the many people coming to mourn of the horrible loss of the Belgian woman, the crooked smile directly showing her the grief and torment she made me go through thanks to her lack of loyalty. Muchos gracias, mi Annabel. I hope to forget about you forever.

Espero olvidarme de ti para siempre… _perra_.


	5. PART ONE: 5

**5**

The summer of the despondent year of 1871 was half miserable, half life-changing, and possibly a little bit unluckily fortunate. While I had remained rather refined in emotions during the course of a few years after Annabel's sporadic and apparently destined death, many memories that acted as pitiful reminiscing of me and Annabel's romantic accords surged right back to my musings, pulling me down into an abysmal world of constant dreary musings and depression. A smile hadn't come to my face for the entire first half of the sad month of June; rather, that frown which I had so carefully learned never to show to the world seemed to be forever etched onto my face. It was a rather confusing time for me, for I was convinced that I hated Annabel and wanted nothing of her anymore, yet my musings brought her back into my life even though she is, in fact, dead and has been dead for years now, a simple servitude to the Diablo nowadays, which—I was sure—she brought upon herself for sinning all those years ago. I held no ounce of pity for her, but I did, however, felt a tinge of regret, for I wished she hadn't died after my learning of his unfaithfulness. I wished for my learning of it sooner, so we may have possibly avoided that certain calamity on the streets we had first met. I would not fight with destiny, though; I guess it was for the better, but sometimes I wished… Oh, how I wished… Oh… I desea…

I, of course, mean it when I say _wished_, as in the pretense form. During one faithful June day, I have come to the epiphany that if Annabel hadn't died the way she did, I would not have met the true love of my life—my precious Lovinito, whom, I will reiterate, is my love, my sin, my everything.

The eleventh of June, in the fluctuating year of 1871, at precisely three o' seven on the clock, was the moment I set my eyes upon the perfection that is known to be as my precious Lovinito. After a rather lengthy day full of unwanted mourning and brooding, I had decided to walk around the streets of Madrid, eventually chancing upon a part of the city I had never seen before. It was cruel, practically the complete opposite of the usually sunny streets I grew up in, and held a strong forbidding aura that would have repelled me if not for the small figure I saw darting around the alleyways. The figure was but a simple blur of warm browns, but I had noticed one particularly distinct feature that lured me into the enigmatic figure's strong grasp: the face of a young child in terror-filled shock, much like the expression Annabel had the last time I had seen her. Something that made me remember Annabel like that could have very well made me run away, never to return, never wanting to come back to this place or to see the figure's familiar expression again, but there was something about that all-too-familiar expression that made me yearn for it constantly. Something about the innocent child's despondent expression on such a fragile face… It pained me, it intrigued me, it pulled my heartstrings with such ease.

I quickly darted into the direction I last saw the little blur of brown run off into, and I found myself in a dark alleyway, the memories of my chance meeting with Francis and Gilbo happily returning to my mind. Creeping around as noiselessly as I could, letting my eyesight adjust to the perpetual darkness of the alleyway, I found a shivering and pathetic little figure cowering beneath a rather mundane window pane, its chubby little hands on its head, hiding his face from the troubles of the outside world. I felt myself smiling, not because I enjoyed seeing the pain and torture of other's, but because of the little child's heartwarming innocence, which I was convinced would be in grave trouble if someone wouldn't step in and save the small child from whatever cruelties the world forced upon such an angelic figure.

So, in a moment, I crouched adjacent to the smallish figure and placed a warming hand on the child's messy tousle of umber locks, receiving a scared whimper from the depths of the child's hoarse throat. Soothingly, smoothly, did I place a gentle kiss on the child's forehead, wrapping my arms around the smallish figure and cradling him in my arms, as if to say I would never let evil grace the child's innocent path ever again. The child seemed to fidget slightly, nerved by the foreign contact, but finally succumbed into Morpheus's promising hold, giving the child a serene face. From that moment did I scrutinize the child, deciding on gender, and found that the rather ambiguous child could have very well been a boy despite his tattered white, effeminate gown. After a few more moments of careful inspection, I nodded with satisfactory enthusiasm and ran off into the drab streets of the forbidding part of Madrid, taking various routes as to return to my humble abode. The boy was gently sleeping in my arms, his hands clutching, scared, to my shirt. To save this young boy, that would be my main goal. Just… quiero salvara, por favor…

I stared at the tranquil face again. It sent a wave of unnatural, surreal shivers to surge throughout my body. It was as if a fallen angel from the skies above landed in my arms, and that was what I assumed he was: a tainted soul of the heavens who was thrust into my care for the reasoning of safety. He needed a bodyguard, and I would be able to provide for that.

I would be this young boy's salvation. I will be this young boy's savior. And _he_—he will unknowingly become the very bane of my existence, pulling me into a hellish world I never would have dreamt of as real, yet would savor every moment within it, as well as savor the pleasure this wonderful young boy would give me through just a simple, rare, simply divine sonrisa.


	6. PART ONE: 6

**6**

Returning to my very lonely house with a sleeping young boy carefully grasped in my arms, I laid him down on my bed and began combing my fingers through the silky feel of his hair, taking off the dirtied gown he had on with one quick movement of the arm. His peacefully serene demeanor caused a tumultuous wave of fervent feelings to accumulate in my chest, my weary heart palpitating with the extremities of a possible heart attack. The young boy was the very epitome of young beauty, _belleza joven_. From his cephalic zone going downwards was a gentle rumple of dark brown locks, a peculiar lone curl precariously jutting from the side of his smallish head, which I commonly referred to as his innocently childish feature. Since he was asleep, I hadn't a glimpse of what his eyes looked like, but from the terrified look he gave me back in the alleyway, I remember having a small glimpse of tawny hazel orbs, like a swirl of luscious caramel poured into his eye sockets, a gentle stream of alabaster vanilla surrounding that sweet, sweet caramel. His voluptuous lips were effeminate shades of crimson and sangria, bruised and bloodied and broken. His lightly sun-kissed skin dipped into a gentle neck, sloping back into the young boy's torso, which was wounded, smallish, and positively scrumptious…

I licked my lips at that moment, tracing my fingers against the scars on his body. This action deemed familiarity with me, but at that moment of blind lust, where I had no control over my body whatsoever, I couldn't recall anything from my memories. All that appeared in my musings were thoughts of the young boy, whose dark lashes had begun to flutter incessantly during my lingering touches, his face becoming animated with life. And, in a sweet instant, his tentative face began to drown itself in a sea of adorable and flustered blushes, his cute little hands attempting to punch my chest with evident intention of violence. While the young niño achieved no such thing, what he did achieve was humor-filled and wholehearted laughter to escape my mouth. This action had, apparently, caused him to frown slightly, the tinge of red painted on his face illuminating with a red that was ten shades darker than before.

¡Dios mío! If ever a cuter creature could exist... This young boy couldn't possibly be able to be rivaled when it came to the cute department, as his adorable levels were skyrocketing, well above even my own imagination. Even with that horribly filthy and sinful frown was he absolutely comely, a regal beauty shrouded in drab rags and enigmatic wounds. Imagine what he would look like with but a simple smile on, even for a mere nanosecond. That, of course, had become my main goal for the moment, for the taciturn boy had said nothing thus far, and I truly, really wanted to see the niño de la sonrisa.

To smile was natural for people like me. To smile, apparently, was not the least bit natural for people like the young boy here. That, however, could easily be changed, thanks to the methods my very loving birth parents have raised and taught me with. So, without even a moment's hesitation, I offered the boy the most soothing, ravishing, and pearly grin I could muster at the moment (which, again, caused him to blush cutely) and I walked up to him sensually, cupping his little wrists onto the bed. I had begun musing at which method to use on him first—possibly chains, or maybe even whips; oh, but a mamada seemed perfect for a situation such as this, si?—but was briefly interrupted by the most heart wrenching whimper I've ever heard, which emitted solely from the young boy's hoarse throat.

And then, I heard him talk, his voice a quivering, scared, and lily-white-like thing—a song of a thousand fallen angels kissing the thorny ground with their bare feet, dirtying the world with innocently corrupted blood. Non ancora. That was what he said. Non ancora. And though the foreign words meant nothing to me, the emotion cowering behind those words made me loosen my grip on the shivering young boy.

I stared at him for a while, looking at the tears that dripped down his flustered cheeks, looking at how tightly he closed his eyes—how absolutely tense he became in a matter of mere segundos—and then looking at his mouth, quivering with an enchanting chant of those two words una y otra y otra vez, like a dismal echo of simpleminded enquiries stabbing at my heart incessantly and almost unforgivingly: non ancora.

Non ancora.

Non ancora…


	7. PART ONE: 7

**7**

Children are so very difficult and irritating and… _ugh_. That, through my careful observations, should be the whole truth and nothing but it. I suppose I should not be jumping to conclusions this early, especially considering it has only been a week since that incident. And, I suppose that whatever I did to him was unpleasant, for the young boy had been avoiding and ignoring and just being plain rude to me for the entirety of these seven days. What I don't understand is that I don't see any fault in my teaching him the correct ways—the ways of happiness, the ways of purity, the ways of _smiling_. Yet, his way of showing gratitude consists of deathly glares, venomous growls, and sometimes a punch or two here. I won't hurt him back, though. No, that kind of violence is unnecessary. I wouldn't want to hurt such a young child… A very cute and feisty one, at that.

At the time, in the course of a week, I learned nothing about him. At the same exact time, I learned everything about him. The little boy's anger trigger was very easy—maybe a little too easy—to provoke. He was naturally petulant, naturally choleric, naturally haughty. He was also naturally scared and wanted nothing to do with me. He wanted nothing to do with anything, and all he wanted, I could tell, was escape and run back into naught. Obviously, there was nowhere he could go. But, in the brief glares he gave me, I could hear his eyes screaming out at me in pained anxiety, telling me that he wanted to much as to flee from the dangers of the world, from the dangers of me, and into a haven of peaceful meadows. As much as I would have complied, I wouldn't just let a small child like him go out into the world by his lonesome self. Even if he was very difficult and irritating and… ugh.

Yes, despite myself, I decided to take the little boy into my very own arms, under my own care, and I would be his boss and he would be my cute little minion, until he was able to support himself (or, at least, that's what I promised myself; things do change when certain circumstances arose, especially in the case of unforeseen sentiments). As did everything in life, it was a lot easier said than done. Likewise, I remained diligent, for my pride! For my pride!

That was what I kept telling myself. I would not allow for a young child like him to boss me around. It was I who should be bossing him around, being his senior by probably fifteen years or so, being superior in every way possible. But, I couldn't help but succumb to his silent entreaties sometimes. He was constantly angry, yes, and he frequently showed his obvious disdain for me. But, deep inside, there was more. That clandestine secret provoked my curiosity, punching it like there was no tomorrow, and I yearned to learn more about this interesting little child. Even if he did have an ugly personality. Even if he was clumsy and broke everything in sight. Even if he did fracture a few of my bones.

Because, I knew everything about him, yet I knew nothing about him…

It's rather difficult to find more about this enigmatic little boy if he would not cooperate with me, though.

Oh! Pobre de mí! Pobre de mí! Why must life be the near equivalent of an infamous Shakespearean romantic tragedy? I do not even like Shakespeare; I prefer Thomas Kyd, especially his influential work, _The Spanish Tragedy_.

Hmm… it is very ironic, is it not?


	8. PART ONE: 8

**8**

Fact: the trick to taming a troublesome tot is to use tomatoes. I just discovered this miraculous epiphany a few hours ago, in my very own garden, on an exceptionally hot Spanish day, the sun looming over us in all its bright glory.

Tomato season had always been my favorite season when it came to anything relating to fruits and vegetation and flowers. I even started growing a garden dedicated solely to tomatoes in my backyard just a few years back. It did take a lot of time out of my life to successfully plant an entire garden of tomatoes, but eventually, after some failed attempts, I made myself a treasure trove of finite tomatoes. The little boy eventually found this treasure trove after loitering around my house again, in all his destructive presence, making a trail of chaos behind him.

He had poked his cute, smallish head outside and looked at me wearily. I was sweating at that time, and I was in my usual work clothes: a tattered straw hat, some khaki shorts. That was it.

When he approached me, his face was a shining red that resembled the shade of a tomato. I was not exactly sure if it was from anger or embarrassment or from something completely different, but from the construed face he was giving me, I opted for the preceding option.

I had asked him then what he was doing outside, and lightly scolded him for getting off-task, like a boss should do. But he didn't reply, which wasn't too much of a surprise considering he had displayed a rather taciturn personality during the course of our superior-inferior relationship. However, something other than rancor and enmity seemed to glow from his eyes. Something like… curiosity; they were aimed clearly at the bulbous, red tomatoes hanging off of the leaves.

"Do you want a tomato?" I had asked him in my native language, my tongue rolling with exaggerated accents. He didn't seem to understand at first. All he did was give me a confused expression, eyes furrowed, mouth slightly open, eyes blinking stupidly. But then, he seemed to come to his senses, eventually, all at once, and pointed a chubby finger at the red morsel I had been holding in my hand.

"To… tomato…" It was more of an awkward statement than a question. His voice, which I had not heard for a long while since the incident occurred, was low and mellow. Concerning a small child, anyway. He had a peculiar accent that seemed foreign to me, which made me quickly assume that it wasn't any kind of Spanish accent. However, it seemed so similar, so apparent that he had a bit of Spanish blood inside him. I assumed that in an instant, that the boy had a bit of Spanish blood in him, enough to at least give him a small gist of what I was saying.

To test my hypothesis, I answered with a, "Sí, mi querido," to which he replied with a simple nod of the head, that faint red returning to devour his chubby cheeks. That, I figured, was as best of an indication I had as of now that he was understanding what I was saying. Either way, the genuine curiosity in his eyes moved me so, making my heart flutter closest to a thousand beats per second.

Without even thinking, I gave him the tomato, and he greedily accepted it, caressing slowly—gently—in his grubby, childish, clammy paws. Then, he took one little bite out of it, and his usually angry expression disintegrated into a thoughtful, placid, very much infatuated expression. Like he just saw an angel sprinkle golden dust onto him, deeming him worthy of the heaven above. Like he found a sanctuary of eternal youth, eternal happiness, eternal love….

Since then, he softened to me, albeit slowly. But, he actually began to somewhat respect my authority over him, as well as speaking to me more often than naught. I, in turn for his improved personality and outlook towards our superior-inferior relationship, started teaching him the basics of Spanish. The first thing I taught him to say was "give me a kiss". The reasoning behind this? Annabel always used to say that to me, and even though I would never exactly comply to her simpleminded and effeminate wishes, I was always somewhat happy to hear those words escape her mouth…

Oh, I am absolutely horrible, for thinking of the one girl I hate again! I have to stop thinking about her so often! She does not exist in my world anymore, she does not exist in my mind anymore, she does not exist in my heart anymore!

I only want my little boy now. Sí, only him…

When I heard him say the words "dame un beso" on his own, I was absolutely astonished and at the same time so prideful that the little boy was able to learn something. There was a sense of accomplishment within me that probably raised my ego by quite a substantial amount. And I wanted so much as to heed to his innocent words, even if he probably did not exactly mean to direct his words to me at all, but I would not kiss him. I can't. Not after the fact he was broken by my sullied actions just a few weeks ago. I didn't want to go back to the very beginning with him again, especially after all the worry and chaos and anxiety I had been forced through to get this far into our lives.

Instead of a kiss, however, I hugged him. Surprisingly, he reciprocated by wrapping his short, little arms around me, nuzzling his face in my chest. We stayed in that calming position for quite some time, loving every precious minute of this glorious bonding moment.

All the while, there was an uncomfortable feeling in my trousers…


	9. PART ONE: 9

**9**

There were days when I looked upon my idiotic youth, which seemed to fly away from me in the forms of the people I have come to know and love. While I was but a small and innocent child, it was my very own parents who have left me behind in this cruel world. As a blooming adolescent, while my best friends haven't exactly left me entirely, communication was something we three lacked for years on end; in fact, I hadn't heard from mi amigos in roughly around five years now, the last I remember of them being that Francis returned to England to pursue an old love (who had been taken away by a small child—a _child_!), and Gilbo had returned to Germany to dote on his younger brother and his younger brother's boyfriend's rather "young" relationship. Speaking of romances, it was during my supposed college years when the first love of my life scarred my outlook on trust for an eternity. And, as much as I would rather not linger on that very experience of my life, it seems that I can never forget about it, no matter how hard I try. I even ended up writing a small lyrical ditty to a tune of a famous Spanish song explaining how life with Annabel had been:

My first love, flechazo  
At only eighteen, mor joven  
She danced, una simple flamenco  
Won my heart, ganado su corazón

My one love, ella me traicionó  
At only eighteen, murió de un disparo  
She trampled, pisoteado mi corazón  
Lost my heart, perdió la vida

Sí, sí, una tragedia se. I find it amazing how one's entire life can be summarized into a few lines of music, but nonetheless, I pride myself in completing such a piece, for it helps me organize my former feelings rotting in the depths of my head. Hopefully, I can now finally let Annabel go, along with the ardent passion seething from the words I chose in the song, which had taken quite some time for me to write (two months in the very least, if I remember correctly).

Just let her go. Let her go. Que se vaya. All I need is mi preciosa Lovinito now; _no one else, or else no one._


End file.
